Fathoms of Ficlets and Droves of Drabbles
by Clever Hobbit
Summary: Drabbles and ficlets I have written that are not long enough to have their own story. Features various characters. NEW: Seashell
1. Questions: Ficlet

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured in the ficlets and drabbles here. All of the characters belong to the marvellous JRR Tolkien.

* * *

Pippin chewed on his lip nervously. His father encouraged his inquisitive nature, saying that it helped to gather knowledge for his future Thainship, but he wasn't really sure if some of his questions would be considered important. They were important to him, and he didn't know if he would ever get another opportunity for answers such as this one.

Steeling up his courage, five-year-old Peregrin Took opened the door of Bag End, ventured over to the bench in the garden where the grey wizard sat, asked, "Are you ticklish, mister Gandalf?" and hiccupped.

Gandalf considered this gravely for a moment (though not without a twinkle in his eye) before answering. "I do not think I am, young Peregrin. No one has ever dared to tickle me," he added, looking ferocious.

"Oh, how sad! You mean you've never been in a tickle fight?" Pippin asked, looking truly distressed. "But then," he said in an afterthought, "You- hic- never got tickled by older cousins and then got the hiccups. That's what happens to me when- hic- Merry tickles me. Do you ever get hiccups, Gandalf?"

"No, I don't believe I ever have. I know something that may clear them up, however. If you sprinkle some sugar on your tongue and then drink some water, that might work."

"Oh! I haven't tried that one! Thank you Gand- hic- alf!" Pippin exclaimed before racing away towards the kitchens. Within ten minutes he was back outside, carrying several varieties of tarts and pastries.

"I thought that if the sugar didn't work, I might as well bring a few sweet things. Just in case," Pippin said around a mouthful of apple tart.

"And are all of those for you?" asked Gandalf.

"No," Pippin said. "I saved this one from Frodo. It's too good to be in a hobbit's stomach- I think it would be much happier to be in a wizard's belly, don't you?" He handed Gandalf a delicious-looking chocolaty pastry.

"I will try not to dash this pastry's hopes for happiness, then," Gandalf said, accepting it.

Pippin grinned and fell back to asking questions- he still had quite a few bouncing around in his brain.

"Do body parts leave the body?"

Gandalf looked rather surprised by this question. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Pippin said as he swallowed a particularly large bite, "people don't always tell my why things are happening, so I try to think of the answers myself. When Pearl shut her finger in a door (I remember because she was shouting about how the weight of the door had chopped her finger off) her fingernail fell off. I thought that the fingernail must have been angry to have been shut in a door like that, so it left. I think that if anything were to leave me, it would be my lips because I always chew on them when I'm nervous or thinking, and I let them get chapped in the winter. If I were a lip, I wouldn't like that. So do body parts leave the body?"

Gandalf looked rather amused. "No, I'm afraid they don't."

"Oh," Pippin said, cramming his mouth full with more food to distract himself from his disappointment. "I always wanted to know what I looked like without lips. Gandalf," Pippin chattered, "I think if it could, your head would leave you. You've hit it twenty-seven times so far, and you've only been here for four days."

"How do you know this?"

"I like to watch people. And dad taught me to count when I was four, and he told me to practice, so when I watch people, I count how many times they do something. Did you know that Frodo had stumbled twice since elevenses?" A loud crash and a curse sounded from the open window. "Three times now. And he's said that word five times since last week. He's very clumsy."

"I hadn't noticed that."

"Most people don't. I think that if you're not noticed, you notice more. I can be very quiet when I want to."

"I can believe that," Gandalf said, smiling.

"Really? I told that to Bilbo, and he laughed. I don't know why. I never said anything funny or clever. My parents are always telling me that I'm funny or clever, but Merry's the funny one and Frodo's clever. What did your parents say about you when you were my age?"

Gandalf, for once, was at a loss. Finally, he thought of an answer that might amuse the young Took. "I can't remember- I'm so old!"

Pippin was delighted at this. "How old are you, Gandalf? Are you as old as Frodo? I heard him say to Bilbo once that he couldn't remember his parents very well. Are you that old?"

Gandalf, feeling rather somber at Pippin's casual mention of Frodo's parents, said, "No. I'm far older than Frodo."

"Are you as old as my parents? I don't think that I'll ever be _that_ old!"

"I'm much older than that."

"Are you as old as- Bilbo?" Pippin asked in reverent tones. Someone that old was very old indeed!

"I'm older than even Bilbo."

Pippin threw his sticky hands in the air. "Then how old are you? **No one** is older than Bilbo!"

"If I told you how old I was, you would never believe me."

"I would! I would! Merry says I believe everything. He said I was gullible. I think that means he thinks I talk a lot."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. The last part of gullible sounds like babble. Gully-babble. How old are you?"

Gandalf leaned over and whispered a number. Pippin's eyes widened. "Wow! Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes."

Pippin looked Gandalf in the eye seriously. "No fibbing?"

Gandalf returned his look solemnly. "No fibbing."

"Wow," Pippin said in awe. "I never knew that numbers could go that high!" He glanced at the untouched pastry in Gandalf's hand. "Are you going to eat that?"

"I thought you said that it would rather be in a wizard than a hobbit?" Gandalf asked, hiding a smile beneath his beard before handing the chocolaty treat over.

"I'm a wizard!" Pippin grinned. "I can make this disappear! Close your eyes!"

Gandalf obliged. Less than five seconds later, Pippin said, "Open your eyes!" True to his word, the entire pastry had vanished.

"See? It's gone! You don't know where it is, do you?"

"No," Gandalf said, his twinkling eyes resting on the brown stain around Pippin's lips that Pippin's tongue was working so industriously to clean away. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"See?" said Pippin, beaming. "I'm a wizard! Well, thank you for talking to me, Gandalf," Pippin said before getting up and slipping through the green door of Bag End.

"Hobbits," Gandalf said, amused, before drawing out his pipe with his weathered hands for a smoke.


	2. The Sea: DoubleDrabble

When a rare gale blew into Ithilien from the West, Legolas could be found perched high in a tree swaying with the gale, his eyes closed in pleasure as the branches around him creaked and the leaves rustled. On quiet nights in Minas Tirith, he was known to sit in the echoing throne room, all alone, listening to the sound of his breathing magnified in the dark, rushing in, rushing out with a calm hiss. At times Arwen would accidentally intrude upon his meditation and a sad, knowing smile would cross her lips before she would leave, Legolas never noticing that she had been there.

His behavior often perplexed Gimli, but he dismissed it as some strange form of Elvish foolishness until he and Legolas sailed to the Undying Lands. He then realized how deeply the sea-longing had taken hold in his friend, though he had not seen it. When Legolas sat in the wind-blown trees, he had been hearing the creak of a ship in his mind, and when he had been in the throne room, the echoes of his breath had transformed and came to his ears as the rush of the waves beating upon the white shores.


	3. I Miss You: Ficlet

Do you remember, cousin, how we used to play and swim in the river? I do. We used to while away the lazy hours on that warm, sun-dappled bank. There was a veil of willow branches dangling down, touching the rippling water. They were long, and so very strong- we could swing from them into the river. The roots of the tree were deep in the ground. The river had eroded away some of the bank so the roots were in the water, creating little nooks and crannies that we had to be careful not to get caught on when we swam. There were flowering reeds all around. It was our secret place. No one else knew where that was, and what occurred there, other than you and me.

We used to hide from troublesome relations that wouldn't leave us alone. Remember how one of our aunts was searching for us, because you had put a frog in her daughter's bed, and the blame had fallen on me as well for providing you with the frog? She was charging after us like a raging bull, but she couldn't find us- you were up the tree, and I was in the reeds. We got in huge trouble when we got home, but it didn't matter to me as much as it would have if it had only been me punished.

Did you know you were my best friend then? I didn't think I deserved such a loyal companion as you. Because you were younger than me, I had thought you a pest at first. You always toddled after me, even when you had first learned to walk. We became known as one person, not two, to my (at first) great annoyance and resentment. But you got older, and my feelings melted away when I got older too, and discovered that age has no meaning between friends.

I can't begin to describe to you how much I miss you. It's all because of that Ring- that cursed Ring! Why was it that it came to me? I don't want it!

And yet- I do. I don't understand how it is I can utterly loathe something and feel compelled to have it as my own at the same time. I feel so torn, so ravaged by that thin band of gold; it would look lovely on my finger… No! I mustn't think of that. I made a promise not to take it for my own, and I have to try to keep holding on. I promised.

I'm so tired. I feel as if I will never be able to stop walking. Where am I going? For what purpose? How will I get there? All of this has been whirling around in my mind since I left you. And I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry for what I did. I didn't mean to do it, dearest cousin. I don't know when I'll see you again. It hurts, it does, to be apart from you and to know that I caused this. I am the reason I may never see you again.

I miss you, cousin.

Frodo awoke to an eerie silence. Not a bird or any sort of creature was to be found in these dank, dreary marshes, aside from Sam, Gollum, and himself. A queer, quiet sort of mist hung like a veil over the land. Now and again the slightest breath of unseen wind caused the dry grasses and reeds to rustle and brought a smell of rotting things to Frodo's nose. Sam lay nearby, breathing slowly with his eyes shut tight.

But there was something else- a soft snuffling sound. Frodo sat up unobtrusively and looked around to find its source. He saw nothing in the misty gloom but the marshes. Then he heard it again- and spotted where it came from.

It was Gollum, the wretched creature. He was lying on his side, facing Frodo, his closed eyes looking strangely dampened. He appeared to be whispering and muttering to himself, his colorless lips forming barely-audible words. Frodo leaned closer in an attempt to hear. When he did snatch a fragment of Gollum's utterances, his words chilled him straight to the bone.

"I miss you, cousin. Deagol."


	4. The Beacon Keeper: Drabble

I am to be cast out of the White City. I must leave in a week, but I shall not leave while there is still breath in me. The armies of Mordor are marching upon Minas Tirith, and I shall not flee in the face of shadow like a coward- I shall stand and fight. My blood shall be spilled to help keep the city free. Only by death shall I be redeemed in the eyes of my lord Denethor for my crime. In his eyes, I have failed- I let the beacons be lit, and now I must pay.


	5. Vision: Ficlet

Movie-verse, takes place just after Aragorn saying "You bow to no one."

* * *

The entire assembly knelt down before their four saviors, save for one solitary figure standing by the restored White Tree. The figure lifted a trembling hand to one of the branches reverently, fingering the silver leaves, mist passing gently around his arm as if there was an unseen shield. The sun glittered on the golden belt of leaves about his waist and upon the Elven brooch at his neck. Resting in his hand was a white horn; slung across his back was a great shield. He lowered his hand and turned to study each of the hobbits before him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears of happiness and pride, his smile as bright as a sunbeam. He bowed down low to the hobbits.

The brave knight of the Mark nodded his head towards the figure, his own eyes wet, his own mouth stretched in a great smile of joy. When he looked back the figure was gone, but for some reason the Steward was looking at the Tree as he kneeled; his own face was wet with tears, his eyes glowing with joy and peace. The knight of the Mark never found out why the Steward looked so, but he liked to believe that perhaps the Steward had seen what he had seen.


	6. A Sticky Situation: Ficlet

"Pippin?" Merry whispered frantically, searching through the store room hastily. Aunt Eglantine had just placed the squirrelly hobbit-lad under his care for the evening during the Yule party, and he didn't want to get in trouble for losing him after the first fifteen minutes. He had turned his attention to a pretty looking lass for not even one minute, and when he turned back he'd seen the eleven-year-old slip off between groups of adults towards the store room.

"Peregrin Took! Where are you?"

A call came from the back where the large barrels of flour were kept. "Merry? Is that you?" One of the barrels was missing its lid. Merry crept towards it in and peered over the edge. There was Pippin, sitting in the barrel and covered from head to toe in flour. Merry's stomach did a little flip.

"Oh no, Pippin…"

Pippin grinned. "I'm Gorbadoc! He has white hair, and when I saw it, I thought that it must be fun to have hair that isn't any color, so I decided to turn my hair white too! Only I fell in the barrel by accident. Can you help me out?" He lifted his hands up to Merry, and Merry took them and pulled him out. To Merry's horror, he began to dust himself off. The flour flew everywhere. Merry grabbed his hands.

"Pippin! Stop!"

"Why?"

"If your mother finds out I let you crawl around in a barrel of flour, I'm in trouble!"

"Why is that different from normal?" Pippin said cheerily. Merry grimaced.

"And you will be in trouble too." Pippin stiffened, keeping perfectly still so as to keep even the smallest grain of flour fromfalling from his clothes and hair. Merry fought an enormous grin.

"You just get up to your room as quick as you can without leaving much of a trail. Change your clothes and clean yourself off. And don't let anyone see you!" Pippin nodded and dashed off, leaving a sprinkling of flour in his wake. Merry sighed and got out a broom.

After he had swept away all traces of flour and replaced the lid on the barrel, he followed the trail of white that Pippin had left, obliterating it with the broom as he went. By the time he got to Pippin's room, he was sneezing so hard that tears were running down his face. He dried his eyes and opened the door to find Pippin's dusty clothes lying in a heap on the floor and Pippin dunking his head in the washbasin. Merry's eyes widened.

"Pippin," he said slowly. "How much flour did you have in your hair, and how much water do you have in that basin?"

Pippin lifted up his head. "I don't know, Merry. I had lots and lots of flour in my hair, because that's where I wanted it, and I didn't have very much water left because mama used most of it to clean me up just before tonight." His curls were dripping wet flour onto the floor.

"Do you remember what happens when you mix flour and water together?"

"Sure! It gets sticky. Do you remember when- oh no." There was a look of terror on Pippin's face. He ran his fingers through his hair, and they came away with globs of a paste-like material. He tried to wash his fingers off in the basin, only to find it was full of the same pasty substance. "Merry! Merry! What do I do?"

Merry grinned. "We could go and dunk your head in the Brandywine."

"Mer-ry! I'm serious!"

"Well, we'll have to do something before it dries…"

"We could get a towel and rub it off."

"Let's try that, then."

Twenty minutes later, Merry held in his hands a slightly sticky towel and beheld an amused Pippin, whose hair stuck out in hard spikes. Pippin touched his head gingerly.

"I have horns!"

Merry groaned. "We only helped the stuff to dry faster! What can we do? Wait- we can try to brush it out, or something. Now that it's dry, it won't stick to the brush- it'll flake off!"

"But I hate having my hair brushed!"

Merry ignored Pippin's protests, picked the brush up off of Pippin's desk, and began to work the flour out of Pippin's hair.

"Ow! Ow! You're pulling on a knot!" Pippin wailed. Merry stopped and inspected the knot of hair and flour.

"This knot's under all of your other hair," Merry mused, fingering the knot. "I don't think anyone would really notice if we cut it off…"

"PLEASE cut it off! Cut off as many of the knots as you can!"

"I'll be right back. I know where mother keeps her sewing scissors. You keep brushing your hair out."

Merry left Pippin to his arduous task and snuck down the hall to his parents' room, keeping a wary eye out. He found his mother's scissors and got back to Pippin as quickly as he could.

"Got them!"

Pippin's face lit up. "Good, because I found another knot here, and here, and here…"

Merry sighed and began the process of cutting away the snarls.

After nearly an hour of cutting hair, cleaning clothes, and sweeping away remains, Merry and Pippin surveyed their work critically.

"I don't think we did a shabby job, do you, Pip?"

Pippin shook his head. "No, it isn't so bad. My head feels lighter, though," he said, running his fingers through his curls. "Wait, Merry, did we rinse out the basin? I think it still has wet flour in it." At that moment, Pearl Took burst into the room.

"There you two are! We've been looking for you for the past half-hour. Didn't you hear us calling you?"

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other. "N-no, we didn't hear you," Pippin said uneasily.

"We were in here the whole time, if you were wondering. It was… too hot down at the party, so we came here to cool down."

"I know! I'm too hot myself," she said, fanning herself. Her cheeks were flushed and pink. "Do you mind if I use your washbasin, Pippin?"

Merry and Pippin looked at each other and grinned wickedly.

"Why no, sister."

"Yes, refresh yourself."

"Thanks." Pearl dipped her hands into the slightly hardened paste in the basin and brought them to her hot face.

"Run!" Merry whispered to Pippin, and they shot out the door, Pearl's angry shrieks following them down the hall.

"**_PEREGRIN TOOK! MERIADOC BRANDYBUCK! GET BACK HERE!_**"


	7. Birthday: Ficlet

Life is an interfering little thing, isn't it? I've been working on the second chapter of Such A Strange Fate (my muse came back!)- I should have it up in a few weeks, if anybody's interested.

* * *

March 22

"My birthday is in three more days."

Legolas looked down from his high perch in the tree on the top of Bag End. There stood a little golden-haired hobbit child- Elanor. He smiled. "I know. That's one of the reasons I came to the Shire for a visit." He leapt down and sat in the grass to be at eye level with her.

"What would you like?" she asked.

"What would I like?"

"Yes, what would you like? I need to know so I can do something for you."

"But why?"

Elanor nearly sighed aloud at the ignorance of the Elf, but held it back at the last moment and settled for twining her hair about her fingers in annoyance instead. "Because my birthday in three days!"

"You want to give me something?" Legolas vaguely remembered Pippin mentioning something about hobbits giving gifts on their birthday, and was touched that Elanor would want to give him something after knowing him for merely a week or so. "You don't have to do that."

"But I want to!" she persisted. "If you need some time to think, that's all right."

"Thank you," he said. "I do need a moment." Elanor nodded and wandered a ways away to allow him to think, sniffing at the flowers in her father's garden and humming softly. Legolas frowned as he pondered what to tell Elanor he wanted. He didn't want to tell her he wanted something hard to obtain. It had to be something easy… He thought for no more than five minutes when he was interrupted.

"When's your birthday?"

Legolas looked up from his thoughts to see Elanor standing before him, tucking a flower into her hair, obviously bored from waiting.

"Daddy says that Elves are many millenniennia old. I don't know what that means," she said thoughtfully, sitting down beside him and toying with a blade of grass, "but it must mean that you had a birthday. When is it?"

"I do not remember which day it was," Legolas admitted. The Elves did not celebrate birthdays, so the date had been forgotten to him, although he knew that his father would know. "I do remember it was around this time, though- when winter turns to spring."

Elanor looked at him pensively before standing up. "I know what I'm going to give you, so never mind." She went inside, leaving Legolas curious as to what she had in mind.

* * *

March 25

"Today's my birthday," Elanor told Legolas, her face alight with a grin.

Legolas smiled back. "I know."

"Here." She handed him a paper folded into quarters. Legolas opened it and read what was inside, scrawled in a childish hand.

_I, Elanor Gardner, on this dae of march 25, giv Legoles Greenleef my birth-dae to shar with me, my birth-dae being the dae of march 25._

Beneath this were six signatures in red ink and one red scribble. He read the names carefully: Samwise Gardner, Rosie Gardner, Jolly Cotton, Nibs Cotton, Tom Cotton, and an 'X'. At the very bottom of the page was a long scrawling scribble that trailed and looked like someone had began to draw a picture of a person with stick-limbs and hadn't finished.

"It's official- I got seven signatures in red ink!" Elanor said proudly. "I got Dad and Mum, and my uncles from when they visited yesterday, and my Dad's Gaffer, that's the 'X' there, 'cause he can't read, and then I gave the pen to Frodo, but I forgot that he couldn't write yet and he started to draw before I could stop him. But," she said, taking a breath, "his mark is on there, and one and one and one and one and one and one and one is," she paused for a moment, counting on her fingers, "-seven! So now you share my birthday," she finished breathlessly, beaming happily.

Legolas ran his fingers over the letters, a slow smile creeping over his face. He picked up Elanor and hugged her. "This is not only the first gift someone has given me for their birthday," he said, setting her down, "but it is also the best." Elanor smiled shyly. "There is only one thing left to do," he said solemnly, kneeling and looking her in the eye.

"What is that?"

"What would you like for my birthday?"


	8. Fireworks: Ficlet

In honor if it being the Fourth of July, I have written another ficlet. This was not inspired by the Fourth, however, as I'm not in America at the moment. This was inspired by the fireworks I saw on the Rhine during Johannis Nacht last week. It's just a happy coincidence that I finished it when I did.

* * *

Three tall figures were watching the goings-on of Hobbiton from a stand of trees on a high hill. A bustle of activity was centered around a great tree in the middle of a clearing. The tree was hung with lanterns, and many lights were being lit on the ground to scare off the darkness of the approaching night. There were many tents with tables beneath them, heavily laden with food and surrounded by chattering hobbits. A small band played a cheery, fast-paced dance and the dancers swirled about.

The smell of hobbit food drifted up to the figures in the trees and caught the nose of the youngest of the group. His stomach gave a loud growl. One of the others, Halbarad, laughed softly.

"Well, that won't do," Halbarad said, smiling in the growing darkness towards the offender. "When viewing a hobbit-party, one must do as hobbits do. Feel free to eat."

The youngest, Falborn, blushed furiously. "Thank you, sir." At a mere fourteen years, still very early in training, he felt quite embarrassed and quite awkward around the older, more experienced Rangers, especially those like Halbarad and the Captain. He took a bit of dried fruit from his pack and sat on the hillside, eating as quietly as he could to avoid attention again.

Falborn was unsure as to why he had been called to join these two to a journey to the Shire. He was the youngest Ranger in training, and he couldn't help but wonder. Was there going to be trouble for the Halflings?

While he was pondering these things, the two other Rangers seated themselves and waited.

"Do you think we should tell the lad what we are doing here?" Halbarad said quietly to the Captain.

"No," the Captain said. "Don't you remember your first time seeing this? Would you have wanted to have everything spoiled by knowing what was coming?"

"No," Halbarad admitted. "No, I would not have wanted that."

The last rays of the sun finally vanished, and night settled in like a dark blanket.

"Ah," the Captain said, his keen eyes picking out a tall grey figure moving amongst the hobbits, "it is time."

Falborn heard this. "Time for-" he began, but was cut off by a loud whistle and a _bang_! He leapt to his feet and his hand flew to his dagger at his belt, but the Captain reached up and caught his hand.

"Peace," he said calmly. "There is nothing to be frightened of. Look at the sky."

Falborn stared at the explosion of bright white against the night sky in awe until it faded away.

"What is it? Has Earendil knocked a star from the sky by accident?"

Both Halbarad and the Captain laughed at this. "It is not that," Halbarad said. "Mithrandir's fireworks are a sight to see, and are always strange and magical when you first see them. Come; join us back on the ground."

Falborn lowered himself down, still staring at the place where the white light had been. "Will they all be like that? White explosions?"

"No," the Captain said. "Mithrandir told me himself that there would be fireworks tonight, and I am guessing that he sent up a simple one to let us know that he is going to pull out his real tricks soon."

Sure enough, another rocket flew into the sky shortly afterwards. A burst of song accompanied this one instead of a jarring bang- scintillating birds flew in a flock and swept about the large tree in the clearing before vanishing as the first white light had. The next was equally stunning: a forest of green trees with sweet-smelling flowers that fell from the branches nearly to the ground. Falborn could smell the lovely scent as the wind carried it to him. He found himself wishing that he was among the hobbits so he could cheer, clap and laugh along with them. He gasped as bright butterflies fountained up, allowing himself to relax the sense of guardianship he had already begun to grow, staring in awe like a child again.

Next to him, Halbarad smiled. He had reacted exactly the same way when he had first seen Mithrandir's magic, and he had been nearly twice Falborn's age. The amazement never really wore off, he thought to himself as pillars of roaring fire became eagles, swans, and ships. Mithrandir's fireworks were never the same. He made each so that they would be entirely different from the next, and that was what made it truly astounding. Halbarad nearly leapt out of his skin when one firework exploded with the sound of a raging army with a forest of spears. So did Falborn. They looked at each other and laughed at their foolishness.

The Captain, having known Mithrandir for years, had seen the fireworks many times before. He had never seen the fireworks reflected in water, however. He watched, fascinated, as a red cloud spilled golden rain, and then looked at the Water to see the reflections, mesmerized by how the slightest ripple made the reflected cloud shiver, break apart, and reform again. He almost didn't notice the next firework until Halbarad grabbed his arm.

"Aragorn!" he breathed, "Look!"

He wrenched his eyes away from the Water and looked up at the sky. There was a white tree, leafless and dead. Then, small buds appeared and opened, raining a shower of white upon the hobbits below. Seven stars formed above the branches, and seven stones beneath the roots.

"Thank you, Mithrandir," Aragorn whispered, staring at the Tree in awe.


	9. Finer Things of Life: ficlet

Sméagol's grandmother had many fine things, he recalled. She had precious jewels, obtained by trading with the dwarves from some forgotten long-ago. There were lovely necklaces of filigreed gold and silver, brought back by certain adventurous relatives from far-off places. There were lovely stones of crystal from the River, cut in such a way that they shone when held in the light. Sméagol was especially fond of these: he would take them out of their boxes and place them in the window-panes on bright mornings, watching them sparkle and cast rainbows against the walls, and then go hunt for crystals for his own, inspired by his grandmother's stones.

But perhaps the finest, or strangest, things his grandmother had were the things that had been discovered in the River-bank long ago. A Man's skeleton had been found, clad in rusting armor. It was forgotten who had found it, but whoever it was had brought the bones and armor home and polished them up.

The bones had been scrubbed thoroughly and left to lay in the sun, bleaching them a bright white. Then, the long, thin bones, such as the fingers and forearms, had been skillfully carved into melodious flutes, which would produce a lovely, rich sound when blown. The skull itself had been made into a bowl. The jaw was removed and the remaining part of the skull had been carefully cut and sanded until only the bowl-shaped top half was left. This was then mounted to keep it from rolling, and was smoothed and painted. The rest of the bones had beautiful designs carved on them and had been enameled with many different colors. Some bones told stories, some were nature scenes, and some were incredible, intricate designs.

Sméagol loved to look at the bones. He had taught himself to play well-known tunes on the flutes. He would fill the bowl with water every morning for his grandmother to wash in, mesmerized by the bright colors painted on the outside as he carried it from the house to the River and back. He would tell himself stories from the bones, making things up if he didn't know who the people were or what they had to do.

But what delighted Sméagol even more than the bones was the armor. That same person who had carved the bones so beautifully had restored the armor, carefully polishing it and removing the rust. Most of the armor had been melted down to use for tools, for metal was hard to come by nowadays, but the breastplate had been kept intact, for it was an excellent mirror. Sméagol would often go to the breastplate and look at the faint design that had escaped the ravages of time. It was a tree; its branches stretched high overhead, and its roots spread out beneath the trunk. Above the branches were seven rayed stars, and below the roots were what appeared to be seven smooth, rounded stones.

Sméagol wondered who the Man was that had been wearing this armor who had died so far from home and left his body to the River. He longed to fill in the pieces of this story, and so it was that the place where the bones had been found, a lovely stretch of the River with a willow tree and reedy banks, became his favorite place to fish and explore.


	10. Secrets: Ficlet

This was concocted from a shirebound plotbunny: _Once Sam has dispersed Galadriel's magical dust and the Mallorn seed, what does he do with the box they came in? _Used to be its own story, but I decided to move it to this as I didn't think it was long enough to stand alone.

_

* * *

_

Daddy has a secret box.

I saw him one day in the study. I was in the corner looking at the way the Elvish writing flowed over the pages of a thick old tome when he came in. He didn't notice me, and at first I didn't really notice him until I heard a scraping sound. I looked up, and there he was standing on a chair, taking something off the top of the tallest bookshelf. He sat down in the chair and looked at the object fondly. It was a little box. He opened it reverently, like it was something special, and looked at whatever it was for some time. I went back to my book, tracing my fingers over the letters dreamily. It wasn't until I could hear little Pippin crying from the other room that Daddy replaced the box and left.

I had forgotten all about it until years later, when I was a tween, and I encountered the box once more. I thought I would be nice to Mum and dust the tops of the bookcases in the study- she was pregnant again, and beginning to have a hard time doing all of the chores. At the time, I suppose I also wanted to show off my superior height- I was growing again, towering over even Frodo by an entire half-inch. I swept the dusting rag over the surfaces absentmindedly while standing tip-toes on a chair when I bumped something with my hand. It fell off the bookcase, opening a tiny fraction and letting something tip out on its journey to the floor. I caught the box, which is what the thing I had knocked over was. It was unharmed, but somehow I knew that Daddy would know if that little chip of something was missing.

Hastily, I leapt off the chair and began scouring the floor for some hint of that mysterious almost insubstantial chip. I crawled on my hands and knees, my fingers flying into all of the cracks. Had it not been for the fact that the edge of the chip was keenly sharp, I wouldn't have ever found it. Sucking a small cut on my finger, I drew the chip out of the crack and examined it with interest.

It was a black, black stone, blacker than the night sky. And smooth on the top and bottom, but jagged and sharp on the edges, like it had been broken off of a larger stone. How curious…

Now I was presented with a dilemma: I didn't want to look in Daddy's box, violating his privacy, but I had to put the stone chip back in. Taking up the box, I studied it. There was a 'G' carved on the top, and was obviously of the Elven make, what with the lovely vines and leaves carved along the sides and the lid.

Curiosity overcame me and I opened the box up, and marveled at what was inside.

There were more of those stone chips, and some dried flowers, lovely and delicate. I couldn't tell what they were, but the most amazing thing was underneath a layer of the flowers.

Wrapped in velvet was a glass phial, filled with water and glimmering with an unseen light. I knew what it must have been- the gift given to Mr. Frodo by the Elf lady. I carefully lifted the precious gift out, holding it gently. It was beautiful, beautiful beyond description. It felt just as Daddy had described it in Mr. Frodo's book- like it was out of a song. I cradled the story of Daddy and Mr. Frodo, Galadriel and the Noldor, Earendil and the Silmarils, and the Trees of Valinor, all condensed into this little silver-glass container. It was a story waiting to be told, brimming with adventure, nearly humming in anticipation of the words that could flow out of a tale-spinner's mouth. It was the perfect gift for the lady Galadriel to give to Mr. Frodo.

I remembered him a little, but not very much. Daddy's told me that there was always a tale on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for the right opportunity to spill out. Like the phial.

I could remember him holding me- I have the vaguest picture of his face. Most of his features are blurry to me, but I remember his gentle smile, and his blue, blue eyes framed by dark curls. And his hand- I would hold my hand up to his, my third finger always going in between the gap where his used to be. And now I held something that used to be his.

What should I do? I didn't want anyone to know I had found his box- Daddy obviously kept it away from the little ones so they wouldn't be tempted to take the top off and empty out the water. That would destroy it forever. No, if Daddy hadn't wanted me to know, then I certainly wasn't going to let on that I knew.

I gently re-wrapped the phial and laid it back in the box amongst the dried flowers- buds from the mallorn tree in the field, I had deduced, and perhaps some other Elvish flower of Lorien, elanor or niphredil- and the chips of stone. I wasn't entirely sure what kind of stone it was- I later learned that Daddy had collected the chips off the ground in Isengard, some of the few bits of Orthanc that the Ents had managed to knock off the impenetrable fortress.

As I pushed the box back up to its high perch, a phrase Daddy had read to me from Mr. Frodo's book came to me. _Keep it secret. Keep it safe._ I smiled to myself. I might not have quite so big a secret to keep as Mr. Frodo did, but it was still a secret to be kept safe.


	11. When Snowhobbits Attack: Ficlet

The chapter title was inspired by shirebound.

* * *

Frodo walked over the fields of Hobbiton, listening to the impenetrable, peaceful silence that blanketed everything. This was the first real thick, heavy snow in a long time, so he had left Bag End about an hour ago to wander outside. He was beginning to feel the cold, so he began to head back towards the Hill. His cousins, Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, had most likely arrived- they were coming to visit for the Yule, and that was part of the reason he had decided to turn back from his wanderings. He was very eager to see them.

Frodo listened to the crunching of snow beneath his feet; the white, damp powder came up to the middle of his calves, and the cuffs of his trousers were soaked. Snowflakes fell thick and fast; he had so much snow on his head, coat, and scarf that he looked as though he'd been rolling in the snow instead of walking in it. The bare tree branches were wearing mantles of snow as they reached their limbs to the grey sky, while the pine trees stooped beneath their heavy loads.

Frodo loved winter- he really did. There was nothing more appealing to him than waking up to see a coat of snow over everything, roaming around for a while, then coming home where Bilbo was waiting for him with a hot meal and a warm study with a fire blazing on the hearth, where he was free to peruse any of the books he wanted to. Nothing more appealing, save perhaps knowing that there would be welcome visitors there in addition.

Reaching the foot of the Hill, Frodo began to walk up the path leading to Bag End. He passed Sam and the Gaffer, shoveling away the snow on the lane and waved. Sam waved back, and the Gaffer responded with a nod before continuing to shovel. Puffing on his icy fingers, he reached the front gate of Bag End when a piercing cry rent the air.

"GET HIM!"

Frodo found himself being pelted with snowballs. Laughing, he ducked behind the fence and waited for his assailants to run out of ammunition and become tired of waiting. As a few more stray snowballs flew over his head, he heard a piping voice: "Merry, where did Frodo go?"

"I don't know," a second voice said, saturated with the utmost of seriousness. "Maybe your last volley was too enthusiastic- perhaps you've killed him?"

"I didn't kill Frodo!" the first voice exclaimed, although there was the slightest hint of worry to it.

"Well, maybe not- maybe he's just been stunned by the amazing force of your Tookish throwing abilities."

"Maybe," the first voice said doubtfully. "Do you think we should go and see if he's dead?"

"If you want to- but it wouldn't be a very pretty sight, I can imagine."

Frodo heard the sound of somebody crunching through the snow. He quickly sprawled himself out on the ground, eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open. The hinges on the gate creaked open, and there was a shriek.

"Merry! Merry! I've killed Frodo!"

Frodo forced himself to keep perfectly still, although he was fighting a dreadful twitch around the corners of his mouth. The sound of footsteps rang through the silent winter air once more. Frodo felt a small hobbit foot nudge his shoulder.

"Frodo?" a little voice whispered. The gate creaked open once more.

"Hmm, this is serious. Do you see what's wrong with him? He's got Frigiditis."

Frodo could nearly feel the confusion radiating off of the smaller assailant.

"…What?"

"Frigiditis. It's a terrible illness that is brought about by being hit with snowballs thrown by a Took. Frodo isn't dead- he's just passing through the first stage of the sickness. It's lucky we found him when we did, because he can only be cured now." As the second voice spoke, Frodo heard him pacing about his body, stopping near his head.

"What can we do?"

"_This!_" A freezing cold snowball was shoved down the front of Frodo's shirt. Frodo yelped, springing up from the ground and desperately trying to remove the snow. He scooped it out and flung it at the grinning face of the perpetrator, Meriadoc Brandybuck, who ducked it.

"I'm glad to see you too, Frodo," Merry said. Little Pippin Took threw himself into Frodo's arms in a fierce hug.

"Frodo! You're better!" Pippin beamed up at him. "You have a lot of snow in your hair, did you know?"

"Now, we can't have that!" Merry exclaimed, and he reached up and began to brush the snow out of Frodo's hair.

"It'd be easier if we took him inside and let the snow melt off instead," Pippin said wisely.

"If we're not careful, he might melt away entirely when set by the fire-side, like a snow-hobbit on a warm day," Merry cautioned. Frodo could see a mischievous glint in his eye. Pippin, only eight and altogether too trusting of his cousin, looked horrified at the very idea.

"I don't think I'll melt, Pip," Frodo said. He unwrapped Pippin's arms from around his waist and took him by the hand. "We can risk going inside." Pippin still looked unsure, but then Frodo encouraged him. "We've got lots of food being made for the Yule." The lad's eyes brightened and he seized Merry's hand as well and began to pull the both of them towards the round green door. Frodo and Merry laughed.

Frodo certainly liked winter the best.


	12. Darkness: Ficlet

Pippin couldn't breathe. He was slowly being pressed to death; a crushing blackness enveloped him. He knew he must be in terrible pain, but could not feel more than a tingling. Even that grew less and less as time passed, although he didn't know how long he'd been like this. He had the oddest sense of detachment from the entire world- events he couldn't quite recall spun around him while he remained still, trapped in the darkness that was his prison. Though he could tell that there was a great roar of noise outside, all sounds were muffled, and he could not tell what was happening.

_I'm back in Old Man Willow_, Pippin thought blearily. A strange blend of fear and relief flooded his consciousness. Fear, for there was no way out this time. It was still winter, that he was sure of, and Tom Bombadil would not be bounding along the path to the Withywindle to gather lilies for Lady Goldberry until the spring. He was certain that Merry, Frodo, and Sam weren't there this time, either, although he couldn't remember why.

He was rather unnerved to find that he was relieved about his predicament. He remembered the awful, creaking voice of Old Man Willow in his ear, and how he had wished to block the words out, but what the Willow had said had implanted itself in his mind. The Willow's words had been full of malice and hate, but there was one thing that he had said that Pippin recalled now- that Pippin would remain trapped forever, and would eventually forget everything and become as a tree himself. The very idea had terrified Pippin then, but now, to his vague horror, it didn't seem so bad. A forever full of forgetting all the bad things that had happened and slowly becoming like a tree didn't seem so bad to him now.

Why was he thinking that? There was nothing terrible to forget. Pippin struggled with his mind, fighting against the black curtain that had been thrown across his memory. Where had he been before this darkness? The lack of air was making it harder and harder to think, as was that loud unidentifiable cacophony. There was a battle… in a white city… Minas Tirith! And then… then he had come with the soldiers to… the Black Gate! And a messenger had come out, bearing Frodo and Sam's belongings! A wave of despair crashed over him. Frodo and Sam were taken, along with the Ring. Merry would be dead soon. Perhaps it was better that he would forget- Middle-earth was doomed, and there was no point in fighting Old Man Willow this time.

It seemed that Old Man Willow sensed that Pippin was not putting up a fight, for the sounds outside suddenly lessened, and a dead silence fell. Relieved, Pippin allowed the darkness to gain the upper hand. Perhaps dying was like going to sleep, he thought, and black thoughts of death and dying settled in his mind.

Pippin had no sense of time in his prison, but it seemed that hours and hours were passing, his consciousness flickering from awareness and back throughout that time. He had lost all feeling in his body, and felt more detached than ever. He was certain that he was ready to die. Suddenly, a cry from the outside world rent the air, so loud that it even penetrated through Old Man Willow clearly.

"Pippin!"

It was a deep, gruff voice calling his name. It sounded so familiar, yet he could not place it.

"Pippin!"

The voice was closer now.

"Peregrin Took, where are you?" The speaker sounded desperate. Pippin wanted to call back, but there was barely enough air left in his lungs to keep him alive. He lay still as the voice called again and again, and soon felt vibrations- footsteps. Somebody was coming, standing right next to Old Man Willow. Pippin wished he could warn the person about the danger of the Willow, but he could do nothing. Through the side of the Willow, he heard a strangled gasp.

"No!" the voice cried.

Pippin felt somebody place hands on the side of Old Man Willow- and suddenly, a crack opened. It grew wider and wider, until he felt the crushing pressure upon him lessen little by little. He found that he could take deeper breaths and did so; a surge of unexpected pain clawed at his chest and he nearly cried out. The feeling was returning, and with it came a terrible pain.

He was lifted up by strong arms and carried for a short distance before being set down. "Oh no," the same voice said. "No, no, this isn't right!" Pippin cracked his eyes open and saw a choked, brown sky above him; he had been rescued from his prison. Who had saved him?

As he breathed, the pain mounted, and his vision began to blur. Unconsciousness was beginning to claim him as he saw someone standing over him. He was taller than a hobbit, but shorter than a Man. He had a long brown beard. Could it really be who he thought it was?

"Tom?" Pippin whispered. As he lost consciousness completely, the person standing by him began to shout.

"Aragorn! Legolas! I've found him!"


	13. Seashell: Double Drabble

Note: This double drabble was written while on a whale watch off of Cape Anne in Gloucester. Something about the sea-spray inspired it. :)

_Seashell_

"Think of me when you use this, Elanor," dad said to me as he pressed the strange shell, a conch, into my hand. It looked like an enormous snail shell crowned with rounded bumps, open on one end and spiraling in on itself. I ran my finger along the soft pink interior and the creamy outside, the shell smooth beneath my fingertips. I forgot to tell him I didn't know how to use it, so sad I was at our parting. I set that shell on a shelf and looked at it every day, wondering what dad had meant.

Some weeks later, I found Ruby's little son sitting on the floor, the delicate shell pressed to his ear. I nearly scolded him for taking it without permission, but what he said stopped me.

"Auntie Ellie! Grandpa Sam is talking to me!"

Once everyone was gone, I took the conch and held it to my ear. I could hear the sea roaring, telling tales of white shores and foaming waves. For a moment, as if it was granted by some higher power, I glimpsed two hobbits embracing by the shore. I wept with joy, knowing that my dad was whole again.


End file.
